The Pain of Remembering
by Verdreht
Summary: After the events of Adam, Jack was sure he'd buried those two days. But then, Ianto starts to remember, and worse yet, he starts to believe. Can Jack convince him he's not the monster he thinks he is, before it's too late? Janto
1. Chapter 1

Ianto wasn't sure how long he'd been in the Archives. He'd only surfaced three times since he got there for work that morning, to make the others coffee and order their lunch. He hadn't helped himself to either, retreating immediately back to the voluminous shelves that made up Torchwood records. It wasn't like he was avoiding his teammates or anything…

Actually, it was. He had no idea why, though. Ever since he'd woken up the yesterday afternoon at the table, missing two days of his memory to boot, he hadn't felt much like being around them. It was more than that, even. He didn't feel…he didn't feel like he _deserved_ to be around them. It felt almost like he felt when he was still hiding Lisa from them: like he had something to hide, something to be ashamed of.

He just didn't know what it was. He got the feeling it had something to do with the two days he was missing, and he had fully intended last night to check the records, but Jack had been there. If something _had_ happened, and Jack didn't know, he'd at least like to get a chance to find out for himself before someone else did. Give him a chance to figure it out or something. He would tell him, really; he wasn't keeping secrets anymore.

Or, at least, he didn't think he was. Was it technically a secret if even you yourself didn't know what it was? Because it felt like he had done something wrong, like he was filthy and _wrong_ and he felt it all so strongly, but he didn't know why. It didn't make sense.

So he'd stayed in the Archives. If there was something wrong with him, he didn't want to risk the others finding out until he did. He didn't want to risk endangering them.

_Why would I endanger them?_

The thought occurred to him suddenly, and he discovered he had no idea where it had come from. Was he a danger to his team? Was something wrong with him?

Running his hands irately through his short hair, he let out a frustrated sigh. He was Ianto Jones; he didn't _like_ not knowing, especially when it had to do with him.

He hadn't realized he was pacing until his toe slammed into something very solid. "Fuck!" he cursed, slamming his fist into the wall. The act caught him off guard. He wasn't normally aggressive, and that wasn't like him at all.

_Maybe it's something to do with what you don't remember…, _supplied a niggling voice in his head, and he felt his stomach drop. Maybe it was something to do with it. Maybe he had done something, hurt someone. Maybe he had—

"I hate it when that happens," said a voice from behind him, and Ianto froze. There was no mistaking that voice, nor, now that he thought about it, that smell. Even the booted footsteps were familiar to him, as they came towards him. Before he had time to even process anything, arms were wrapped around his waist, and he was pulled back into a very solid chest. "Shall I kiss it better?"

Ianto gulped. There was something in Jack's voice; it was flirtatious and smooth as always, but there was something more to it. Concern, maybe? It seemed he didn't think lashing out at inanimate objects was typical Ianto behavior either.

"Sorry," Ianto muttered, unable to help the blush that heated his face. "Guess I'm just a little wound up."

"Worn out's more like it," Jack said, his breath blowing across Ianto's ear from his proximity. His hands on his hips hugged him tighter, and the older man pressed a kiss to Ianto's neck. "It's nearly eleven, baby boy, you got here at six this morning. You need sleep."

Ianto nodded. He wasn't tired, he knew that well enough, but if Jack was kind enough to offer him an excuse for his weirdness, then he would be a fool not to capitalize. As much as he would've liked to tell Jack what was wrong, to let Jack put his mind at ease as he always seemed to manage to do, he was scared. He didn't know what he was scared of, no, but if anything, that just made it worse.

"Are you alright? You're awfully tense," Jack said, loosening his hold on Ianto just enough to turn him around. Ianto would have preferred to stay as he was; it was so much harder to pretend when Jack was looking him in the eyes.

"Just had a long day's all," he lied. Well, it wasn't really a lie. He _had_ had a long day – a very long one, actually, given his lack of sleep the night before. He just couldn't get his mind to shut off. There were too many questions, too many worries. He couldn't sleep, and he'd worked himself into quite a tizzy. His head ached fiercely, as it had ever since he'd woken up in that God-awful position in the chair, and for some reason, that ache seemed to extend to nearly every bone in his body.

Jack accepted the response, thankfully. Ianto didn't know if he had it in him to give any better a response. "C'mon, then. Time to leave your cave, Yan." He started to steer him towards the door, but Ianto slipped loose.

"I actually just have a few more things to finish up here," he said, turning to the stack of files he'd amassed on one of the many tables around the Archives.

Behind him, he heard Jack sigh. "Alright. Just...make sure you're out of here by twelve. And if you're too tired to drive, you're welcome to stay here."

"Thank you," Ianto replied, dipping his head lightly. He wouldn't be staying there; he imagined they both knew that, but all the same, the gesture was appreciated. Under any other circumstance, he probably would have accepted. He just didn't want to…he didn't want to be around him.

_"I know you didn't mean to kill her. You just couldn't stop yourself." Flashes of a girl, a face, scared tears, and screams roared through his head. "Remember it." Agony ripped through him, but there was a smile on his face as the life drained from her eyes. "Remember it. Remember it. Remember it!" _

Ianto jumped as a hand settled on his shoulder, and he let out a startled yelp involuntarily. Jack was looking at him strangely, his hand still resting on Ianto's shoulder.

"Ianto, are you okay?" he asked.

He nodded quickly – too quickly, in Jack's tastes – and subtly wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his trousers. He had no idea what that was just then, the noises, the sights, the emotions: it had all felt so real, so vivid. And yet, he had no idea where it came from. He could see himself, could hear that voice, could feel those things, but he didn't know where it came from. All he knew was that now, he felt sick. His head ached more fiercely than ever, and he wanted nothing more than to just curl into a ball and fade into oblivion.

But of course, that might raise some questions. Curling into the fetal position mid-conversation was hardly normal behavior, and Jack already looked plenty concerned about him. "I'm fine, sorry. Just spaced a little bit," he assured, forcing a smile on his face that he could only hope looked more convincing than it felt. "Just let me finish up here, and I'll be on my way."

Jack didn't look terribly satisfied this time, but he didn't want to press. He was trying to get Ianto to come to him when something was wrong; he knew he'd lost a lot of trust, running off with the Doctor, and he had to get it back somehow. He'd give Ianto his space, and hopefully he would come to him.

_Then again, that didn't work so well after the Beacons…_ He tried not to let himself think about that, not to let himself imagine the picture of Ianto, barely conscious and crying on the floor of his office. He'd been down for weeks after that, with all those injuries.

No, he wouldn't be letting that happen again. But he'd give Ianto space. Not too much, but just enough. Just for tonight, at the very least. If he hadn't gotten himself sorted in the morning, he'd deal with it then.

"All right, then," he said. "Night, Ianto." Slipping his hand into Ianto's hair, he pulled him in for a quick kiss before turning and heading back out of the Archives. Just before he left, though, he turned. "Remember, I want you out by twelve, and my manhole's always open." Pun fully intended, he gave Ianto a wink and a smile before disappearing up the stairs.

"I bet that's what you say to all the blokes!" Ianto called after him, relieved to have just a bit of a distraction. Leave it to Jack to get his mind off hearing voices by telling a dirty joke.

…And, he was back to the voices in his head again. Damn.

What had that been, though, honestly? He'd heard it, clear as he'd heard Jack, and it terrified him. Was he going insane? What if that was why he'd lost two days of his life – what if he was losing his mind.

But no, all the others had forgotten as well, and everything had been cleared when they'd looked, from the CCTV's to the files. Aside from that mysterious bag, the one labeled "Adam's Property," there was nothing.

"Why can't I remember?" he seethed, fisting his fingers in his hair. He didn't stop pacing until…well, he did, falling back against the wall and sliding down it. He hated this so much. He hated not knowing, hated how it made him feel. There was something wrong with him!

_"But we know the rot in your heart. You crave flesh…. Remember it! Remember it!"_

A whimper broke from Ianto's throat. What was he supposed to remember? What else could he remember, and how much worse would it be? Something was wrong with him. Something was wrong with him, and he didn't know what, and the others didn't either, and they _couldn't_ know. Because what he'd seen, what he couldn't _stop_ seeing, was bad, and something told him that it got worse.

_"Remember it! Remember it!"_

What was the voice in his head? Who was it? It wasn't Jack or Owen or Tosh or Gwen. It was snide and sneering. It delighted in his misery and wanted to cause him more.

But how did he know that? How did he know that any of this was what he thought it was? He couldn't remember anything, and all he got were nonsensical flashes.

His head ached. No, it _throbbed_, pounding agonizingly in his ears until it was all he could hear. His body ached in time, his joints stiff and muscles cramping and tensing until it felt like he was having a seizure.

With nothing left to do, he did the one thing he wanted: he curled into a ball, tucking his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He was shaking now, and every individual tremor wracked his form painfully.

_"Remember it! Remember it!"_

It was getting worse; _he_ was getting worse, and he didn't even know why. He was alone in this, alone and confused, and the only comfort he had was that no one knew. He didn't know, but neither did anyone else.

_I'm a monster…_

For some reason, those words struck him hard. It wasn't the strange voice saying them, but his own, and once he'd thought them, they wouldn't stop. Over and over, they repeated in his head until finally, they were silenced by the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

Jack didn't wait until twelve. He hadn't heard anything from the Archives in a while, and when he switched on the CCTV, he found Ianto sitting curled up against the wall. He wasn't moving, save the barely visible rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed.

Pushing himself up from his chair, Jack started down the stairs from his office. He tried to be as quiet as he could descending the steps to the Archives, and it paid off. When he got there, sure enough, there Ianto sat, huddled up in a corner between the wall and a shelf, his arms wrapped around himself looking for all the world like a lost kid.

That said, he was freaking adorable, but Jack had to wake him up. The Archives were no place to sleep, and if the dark circles under Ianto's eyes were any indication, the guy needed to catch some serious z's.

Dropping down on his knees in front of his young lover, he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Yan," he whispered, giving him a light shake. That was all it took, and Ianto woke with a start, kicking his legs out and just barely avoiding nailing Jack in the groin. "Hey, hey, easy." He held out his hands peacefully while Ianto blinked, obviously still fighting off the grip of sleep. He was breathing awfully fast, Jack noticed, and he wondered if he'd had a nightmare. Wouldn't surprise him, really; Ianto had nightmares more than he liked to think, and they were worse than anyone his age's had any right to be.

Finally, recognition started to catch in those bleary blue eyes. "Jack?" he whispered, his voice raspy and slurred, which, combined with his standard accent, made him sound both sexy and incredibly adorable.

He smiled, stroking his thumb across Ianto's cheek. "In the flesh," he said. "Don't suppose you're ready to call it a night _now_, are you?"

Ianto opened his mouth to answer, but was silenced by a yawn, and he rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. He was so tired, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw them. He saw those women, saw their terrified faces, heard that _voice_.

"Yan? Earth to Yan?"

Ianto shook his head, and finally his eyes focused on Jack's. In all honesty, he was still having a hard time keeping them open.

Jack seemed to notice, and chuckled a little. "Come on, let's get you into bed," he said, and stood, sticking out a hand to help Ianto up. Ianto accepted, and he pulled him up. "There you go." He wrapped his arms around Ianto's hips and gave him a quick kiss before starting to steer him towards the stairs of the archives with a hand around his waist.

They made it up to the centre of the Hub, and Ianto was started to turn from him to head out, but Jack held him steady. "It's too late to start home now. You've still got some spare suits here, right?"

Ianto nodded. "But I—"

"I said out by twelve, and it's past twelve. Which means now you listen to me," he said shortly, and that was that. He walked Ianto up the stairs to his office, and waited until Ianto was down in his room before he went down as well.

With his back to Jack, tucked in the far corner of the room, Ianto started to undress. It was almost like he was…guarding himself. Hiding. Jack knew the behavior; he'd seen it after the Beacons, seen it after he returned from his time with the Doctor. Something was wrong with his boy.

When Ianto finally made it to bed, dressed in a pair of sleep trousers that he'd borrowed from Jack, Jack pointedly pulled him back against his chest. "Something's wrong," he whispered in Ianto's ear, kissing his neck. He felt Ianto freeze against him, felt his breath stop. "I'm not going to push, Yan. I just want you to know you can talk to me. I'm here, all right?"

He couldn't even begin to fathom why, but with those words, Ianto turned on his side, buried his face in Jack's chest, and started to cry.

For a moment, he was surprised, but then he pushed it aside. Even if he didn't know what was wrong, even if Ianto wasn't ready to tell him what it was, he could at least try to make it better. "Shh," he soothed, rubbing Ianto's back and stroking his fingers through his hair. "I'm here, it's okay."

And it was going to be. He didn't know how, but somehow, he was going to make it okay.


	2. Chapter 2

_It's night. That's the first thing Ianto notices. It's night, and it's raining, and there's a woman. His…his hands are around her throat. She's crying, thrashing against the wall of what looks to be an alley, screaming for him to let her go even though she scarcely has any breath left. He throws her – he doesn't mean to, doesn't tell his arms to do anything, they just _do_ – to the ground. But she doesn't land on the rain-slicked concrete of the alley, rather on an old discarded mattress. Her head cracks against the wall of the alley, and she falls to the mattress, disoriented and terrified. _

_ "I know you didn't mean to kill her." He doesn't know where the voice is coming from. The woman's lips aren't moving, save around incoherent pleas and sobs. He know it isn't him; it's not his voice, and even if he's not in control of his hands or arms, at least they are his. _

_ He's not in control of his legs, either, it seems. He finds himself kneeling on the ground in front of her, the cold rain on the ground seeping through the knees of his already-drenched trousers. It feels so real, from the chill of the water to the sting of broken glass digging into his knee. _

_ She's starting to get up, and he cheers her on desperately. If she could only get up, could only run away, then it would be alright. He doesn't want to hurt her, doesn't want to be the one bringing the tears to her eyes or the terror to her young, pretty face. _

_ But she doesn't get up and run, and before she can even recover from her disorientation, he pushes her back down. Only it's not him. It's his body, but not him, because he's screaming now, on the inside. He's crying, and this form is not. _

_ This body is laughing. _

_ He can feel the bite of her nails as she fights him off, and he tries to focus on it. Anything to block _this_ out. He tries to scream at himself, begging these foreign, yet painfully familiar limbs to listen to him. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he's killing her! He's watching the light drain from her petrified eyes, and it's killing him, too. _

_ "You just couldn't stop yourself." _

_ Suddenly there were hands on him, on his forehead. He wasn't in the alley anymore, but in the Hub. He was choking, gasping. He couldn't breathe, and he was in agony, like his brain was being ripped apart from the inside. Through his blurring, unfocused vision, he saw something. Blond hair, violent eyes, and lips moving around the two words that had been haunting him:_

_ "Remember this!" _

Ianto woke with a start, his heart thudding painfully loud and fast in his ears. His stomach was churning, and—he was going to be sick, he was going to be sick, he was going to be—

"Ianto, what's going on?" Jack's bleary voice sounded from behind him.

He didn't get a response, though, as Ianto half-tore, half-rolled out of bed and ran into the attached bathroom. He barely made it in time, collapsing to his knees in front of the toilet just as the sick worked its way up his throat.

The terror in her eyes, the scream dying in her throat as he closed his hands around it. His eyes were already burning and itchy from where he'd cried last night – _God, because he needed something else to feel horrible about_ – and they were quick to well up again as heaves continued to wrack his frame.

"Ianto?" came a voice from the door. Jack. "Oh, Ianto," he breathed, kneeling beside Ianto and rubbing his shoulders soothingly. "Catch your breath, Yan. Catch your breath."

But he couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her there, and heard that voice.

_Remember it!_

A whimper broke from his throat and he clenched his eyes. He had nothing left to throw up, but he couldn't manage to draw in a steady breath as the dry heaves wracked his frame.

Something fell on the back of his neck, cold and wet, and he realized Jack had draped a cool rag there. Normally, it helped. Now it just made him shiver. All the same, it did help him get his stomach under control, if only for the shock.

"Feeling any better?" Jack asked after the worst of it was over. Ianto managed a shaky nod and sat back on his heels, just in time to take the glass of water Jack held out to him. "Small sips," Jack reminded him as he went to chug the water. Jack always did know him well, even if he didn't know it.

"Sorry," Ianto mumbled, once he'd gotten as much of the disgusting taste of sick out of his mouth as he possibly could. He'd sat back now, because the chill of the tile was starting to seep into his knees and make the ache stronger, and Jack was sitting in front of him.

Jack smiled reassuringly, giving his shoulder a soft squeeze. "Nothing to apologize for, Yan. Think you can get up?"

Ianto thought for a moment. Could he get up? Probably. Did he want to? No. He rather wanted to be alone right then, to let himself wallow in his panic and humiliation for a little bit. That nightmare…God, it had been so real. And it had been just like those flashes from before. It was too similar to be coincidence. And those two days missing from his memory _and _Torchwood records.What if…what if he really had…?

He pushed himself off the ground and hurried, albeit shakily, back into Jack's room. He had some extra suits in Jack's closet, and he pulled one of them out. Jack caught up to him right about then, as he turned to go to the spare showers in the Hub.

With a hand on his shoulder, Jack turned him around. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" His eyebrows were knotted, and his face contorted with confusion and concern. As much as he tried to play it cool, Ianto knew Jack's dirty secret: the man was the biggest mother hen that side of the North Atlantic.

But, of course, Ianto was the master of hiding. Even as his heart pounded in his chest alarmingly fast, and his stomach churned in time with his racing thoughts, he kept his face steely and calm. "I need to get ready for work," he said, and he was proud to say his voice barely even trembled, even though his hands shook uncontrollably in the fabric of the suit he was holding.

_Just hold it together long enough to make it to the Archives. Just pretend there's nothing wrong. _

Jack wasn't buying it. "You're not working today," he said, and he said it in that voice that left no room for argument.

Not that it stopped Ianto from arguing. "I only felt a little sick," he protested. "I think dinner might've been off last night."

"Funny, I had the same thing as you and I don't even feel queasy," Jack retorted, arching a single eyebrow. He had still had a hand on Ianto's shoulder, his thumb stroking a distractingly soothing pattern across Ianto's exposed collarbone. "Come on, Yan, just tell me what's wrong."

"I told you, I just felt a bit off. I'm fine now." He started to turn again, but Jack forced him back around.

"Ianto, stop. There's something going on here, and if you're not going to trust me enough to tell me, then I guess I'll have to deal with it. But I can't have you walking around here like this. Either stay down here, or let me drive you home." Ianto opened his mouth to protest, but Jack held up a hand. "No buts, Yan. Those are your two choices."

To be honest, neither of them sounded terribly appealing. He didn't really want to be alone – the voice came to him when he was alone, more than it did when he was with Jack – but at the same time, he didn't want to be around people. He didn't have a reason for it, just a feeling. An uneasy feeling.

At the same time, staying there would mean constant scrutiny. He knew Jack well enough to know that he wouldn't just leave him be, and if he got sick again like his rolling stomach suggested he might, he'd probably sic Owen on him. That'd make an already bad situation worse.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, it was really just a matter of choosing the lesser of two evils. While he didn't want to be alone, he couldn't _risk_ being around the others. What if they found out…what if they found out…what, exactly? He hadn't the slightest idea what they might discover, and that terrified him more than anything. He couldn't hide what he didn't know, couldn't fix it or make amends. Those pictures in his head, the woman screaming, the voice…he didn't know what any of it meant, and he was scared. God, he was scared.

"Home," he said finally. "I want to go home. Just…let me get dressed first."

Jack didn't look terribly pleased at the idea, but he eventually nodded. "All right, then, but I don't think the suit's really necessary," he said, before taking the suit from Ianto's hands and sitting it on the bed. At Ianto's sour look, he smiled a little. "I'll hang it up later, I swear." Then he went over to his drawers and rifled through until he found a t-shirt and some jeans Ianto had left over. "I'm glad you finally decided to start hijacking some of my storage space; I don't know if anything of mine would fit you anymore." It used to be that they were pretty close, but lately, Ianto was running a little on the lighter side than Jack, and since the older man was already taller, he imagined they'd just about dwarf him now.

"All right, then, go get changed. If you're not out in ten, I'm coming after you," he said as he handed Ianto the clothes. Instead of letting him climb the ladder back into Jack's office, though, he turned him and pushed him towards the bathroom there.

Ianto leaned his head against the mercifully cool glass, watching the buildings pass on the way to his flat. Jack was being surprisingly quiet, though every now and then, he caught him looking at him out of the corner of his eye, that same concerned expression on his face. He really did hate that he was worrying him; Jack had enough to deal with on any given day without him adding to the troubles. He couldn't help it, though. His foot tapped nervously, his hands fidgeted in his lap, and every now and then…

_Remember it!_

He'd try really hard not to gasp, really he would, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Jack put a comforting hand on his thigh, glancing at him, but he wouldn't say anything.

When they finally came to a stop in front of Ianto's complex, he got out. Jack was already coming around to him, and slipped a hand around Ianto's waist as soon as he reached him, like he was afraid Ianto would fall at any moment. He stayed like that, walking with Ianto all the way up to his flat, and letting him go only so that Ianto could fish his keys out of his pocket and go inside. He followed closely enough behind.

"Can I get you anything?" Ianto asked as he walked in. He was pretty confident Jack could find anything he needed there – God knew he'd been there enough times, in the past, between post-mission stay-overs and the occasional out-of-office shag. It was more than that, now, he supposed. Now that Jack had started asking him on dates and other things that people in _relationships_ did. Movie nights, cuddling on the sofa, breakfast in bed…it was definitely new to Ianto, but Jack seemed more than willing to show him the ropes.

"You can get in bed," Jack replied, gesturing down the hall towards Ianto's bedroom. "And for once, that has nothing to do with sex." The last was said with a hint of a smirk and a wink, and for the briefest of moments, Ianto felt some of the tension release from his chest.

"Should I be offended?" he asked.

Jack's hand found his hips again, and the man pulled him in for a kiss – thank God he'd brushed his teeth before he left the Hub – before walking him the rest of the way into his bedroom. "Not in the least, Yan." He kissed him again, this time on the forehead as he backed him up until his knees hit the bed. "But you need to get some sleep."

Sleep. That was the one thing Ianto _didn't_ want. All the same, he forced a smile and nodded. After a moment's thought and hesitation, he unfastened his jeans and slid out of them before sitting down on the bed.

Brushing his hand through Ianto's hair, Jack smiled. "You want me to stay for a while?" he asked. Ianto could tell he was asking just as much for him as he was for himself; Jack didn't want to leave him alone, and honestly, part of him didn't want Jack to go. He wasn't planning on sleeping anytime soon, though, and Jack would be watching him. He needed to be by himself, to sort this out, as much as he hated the thought.

"It's fine," he said. "I'll be fine. Just…tell the others not to touch the coffee machine, yeah?"

Jack chuckled. "Yeah. Now get some sleep, okay?" Cupping his hand to the side of Ianto's face, he leaned in for one last kiss before straightening back up. "Are you _sure_ there's nothing I can get you before I go?" he asked.

Ianto nodded. "Positive. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Or call me, if you're still feeling bad. I'll try to come by tonight." And before Ianto got a chance to protest, Jack left. For the longest time, he just sat there, listening as the door to his flat closed signaling he was once again alone with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

And as silence fell in his flat, two words echoed in his head with nearly painful clarity.

_Remember it…_.


	3. Chapter 3

_A woman is running, her footfalls slapping in the rain and sending droplets splattering up onto her pretty, sunny pink dress suit. With her hair pulled up in a bun, her glasses bouncing on her face, she looks like she only just got off work. Probably some young corporate working her way up the ladder. But this wasn't corporate, and she wasn't going anywhere. _

_ She was cornered, cowering against the door of a closed warehouse. He could see the tears in her eyes, see the fear there, but he kept moving. He was the one cornering her, the one that had brought the terror to her young eyes, and it horrified him. Why was he doing this? Why was he chasing her, hurting her? _

_ "Please don't hurt me!" she cries, and he wants to tell her he won't. He wants to tell her that he's as scared as she is, that he's not the monster that's hunting her down. He wants to tell her that everything will be okay, but he knows as he steps closer to her, that it would be a lie. _

_ "Good old Ianto. Loyal Ianto." It's not her voice, but _the_ Voice. The one that has been haunting him, the one that goads him on and punishes him with cruel, sneering words. This time is no different, as his hands close around the thin, delicate neck of the woman. His legs hurt – she's kicking him, and he wishes she would kick harder. She could break his leg, if only she'd try; she could break his leg and run, because he would rather be beaten than become this…this monster. _

Ianto screamed, throwing his head back against the wall of his bathroom. He doesn't know when he got there, just that he's been there too long. The cold of the floor is making him shiver, the tears streaming down his face leaving burning tracks. He can't tell what's real anymore. Ever since Jack left – _had he ever been there at all, or was that just his imagination?_ – these hallucinations had been coming. But…he wasn't sure they were hallucinations. They felt so real; sometimes, they felt more real than this now. He had two days he couldn't account for, and they were all so vivid. He could _feel_ his hands around their necks, hear their final breaths, and oh God, oh God, oh God, what had he done?

"It's not real," he whimpered to himself. "It's not real, it's not real, it's not real."

But it might as well have been. Hell, for all he knew, it was. He could've killed those women, could have murdered them in cold blood. There had been no reason to it when he'd chased them down; he'd done it smiling and laughing, because he'd _enjoyed it._ Like a monster, he'd enjoyed it. The hunt, the thrill, the_ power_.

_"Remember it! Roaming the streets at night, looking for bait." The Voice was back, seeping into his brain, stabbing into his very consciousness. He couldn't escape it. It was there, it was real as the hands on his head, the diary in his hands. _

_ The diary? Why did he have a diary? He was supposed to have it; he knew that, for some reason, he was supposed to have it. There was something in there that wasn't right, though. No, there was something that _wasn't_ in there that wasn't right. His diary was missing something. Or no, his diary was right in not having something. There was something that was there that wasn't real, that wasn't in his recollection. There was something there that was made up. _

_ "All human record is a lie," says the Voice, and oh God, it was so convincing. He was moving again. The hands on his face, pushing him down, smothering him, they were gone. All that was left was the feel of the wind beating against his face, and the pungent scent of the alley. There's someone there, though. Someone blond, someone cruel, but they don't matter. His diary is cast aside by this inconsequential person, and he is left leaning against the door of a warehouse. _

_ "But we know the rot in your heart," the Voice taunted, mocking him, accusing him. "You crave flesh." _

_ He cried, and for once, the voice that sounded reflected his own wishes. "No, please," he begged. He wasn't a monster. He didn't want this, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop killing these women, couldn't stop choking the life out of them and laughing. He couldn't stop laughing, even as he cried. _

_ There were hands on his head again, and searing agony shot through him. He couldn't breathe, it just hurt. It hurt so much, and he was so scared._

_ "Remember it!"_

_ He screamed, but then he was back there, in the alley. There was another woman, young and regular just like the others. He knows what's coming, but he's powerless to stop it. The fear in her tear-filled eyes grows, and then is suddenly replaced with agony as a fist – Ianto's fist – slams into her stomach. He can feel the sickening smack of flesh against his knuckles, feel the crack of bone. She gasps, a heart wrenching mix of fear and pain, but he just slams her back into the wall of the alley._

_ "Remember it! Remember it!"_

_ He was in another alley, but this time, all he sees are shadows. It's so dark, but the shadows are ever darker, and somehow, he knows that the darkest one is his own. He saw that shadow, the darkest shadow, raise its arm, and felt the air breeze on the back of his hand as he seemed to do the same. The shadow's arm surged forward, and against his own hand, he could feel the air whiz past. And then another crack, another scream. He was hurting her. _

_ He was killing her. _

He crawled across the floor, looking for something desperately. He didn't really know what he was looking for, but at the same time, he did. There was pain everywhere now, and he told himself he deserved it. He was a monster. Oh God, he had killed all those women, all those innocents; he was a monster, and he deserved every ounce of pain he felt, from the searing agony in his head to the throbbing aches in his body. He deserved it all, because whatever he felt, they had felt worse. They'd been terrified as the life left their bodies – as the he _sent_ it from their bodies. He was a killer, a monster, and he deserved this.

A broken whimper slipped from the back of his throat as his shaky hand pulled a drawer clear from his sink counter. It landed on the floor in front of him, loud and clattering, but that didn't matter. He ripped through the drawer until his fingers closed on something. A bottle, plastic and orange. It was the only one in the drawer, and he knew what it contained. It contained an end to this.

But then…he couldn't do it. He couldn't…He was a coward and a monster. He was a pathetic abomination. What would Jack think? Jack and Owen and Tosh and Gwen – he was worse than anything they'd ever hunted. He deserved to die more than any of them, so then why couldn't he do it? Damn him, he couldn't do it! He'd killed those women.

_He was carrying something. It wasn't until he looked down and really focused his teary eyes that he realized what it was. Against his fingers, the drenched fabric of a rolled up blanket was cold and scratchy, but it wasn't the blanket itself that was worrisome, rather what was rolled up inside it that had Ianto screaming in horror – well, on the inside, he screamed. Outside, he was ice. _

_ There was a body. Blonde hair, not unlike the hair of the woman he'd shoved against that alley wall, hung from the end of the blanket, and it was heavy. He knew there was someone on the other side of that blanket, the blond-haired man, but he didn't matter. He didn't have a face, only a voice, as they lifted the weight of the dead woman and threw her into the rubbish bin of the alley. _

_ "I helped you dump the bodies…" _

_ Because that was what Ianto did, wasn't it? He disposed of the bodies. It was his job. Good old Ianto. Loyal Ianto. He hid the bodies just like he hid his secrets. Just like he hid the women whose lives he'd taken. He was a monster. He was a monster. _

_ "Remember it!"_

Ianto's arms crashed into the mirror, from his elbows to his wrists, sending shards flying through the room and digging into his flesh. Blood wept down his arms, from his fingers too as he let his hands drop to his sides. He had seen his face, and how he hated it. He hate the monster looking back at him, with bloodshot eyes and scratches and blood seeping into his hair from where his short fingernails had dug in just a little too deep.

_His cheek burned as her fingernails left trails of fire across his face. He only laughed. He loved it when they fought. _

He had to get out of there, he realized. He couldn't do it, couldn't end it, but he was a danger. He had to get somewhere where they could lock him away, where he wouldn't hurt anyone. The police dealt with murderers, didn't they? They could lock him away and he couldn't hurt anyone.

But even then, in his mania, he knew he couldn't do it. Of all his secrets, even this one, Torchwood was the greatest. He couldn't risk telling them, and he knew that now, there was no telling what he was going to do. What he was capable of. He was a murderer; it wasn't hard to imagine he could be a betrayer, too.

Torchwood, then. He had to go to Torchwood. They could lock him in the Vaults and keep him away from everyone. They could keep people safe…safe from him.

Mind made up, Ianto ran from the bathroom, his broken, bleeding fingers still clutching the orange bottle in his fist. He might need it later, if he worked up the courage, or if the situation was desperate.

The last semblance of his sanity reminded him to dress himself before he left; walking about in a t-shirt and boxer briefs would alert suspicion, and he couldn't be caught before he reached Torchwood. He had to get to Torchwood, and then it wouldn't matter anymore, because then they could lock him away like the monster he was, with the weevils that murdered people, just like he murdered people. At least the weevils had an excuse; it was in their nature.

But then, maybe it was in his.

A strangled sob broke free from his lips, but he bit back the rest. He had to keep it together until he made it to the Hub.

Pulling on the jeans he'd discarded earlier – had it been hours? Days? – tugging on a hooded jumper to hide the gashes on his arms, he left his flat. With single-minded determinedness, he walked, no, he _ran_ down the stairs of his complex, where he slowed to a quick walk. Long strides, the pills in the bottle in the left pocket of his jumper rattling about like a sort of pacifier, he walked. The path was automatic; there was no telling how many times he'd walked this path in the last year and a half. He kept his head down as he went, but even so, he couldn't help wincing each time the corner of his eyes caught a flash of heels.

_She wore heels. How could she hope to escape him in heels? If only should would hit him, kick him, _fight_ him, then maybe she could get away? Why wouldn't she get away?_

Shaking his head, he hunched his shoulders and focused his gaze a little more intensely on the concrete under his feet. One foot in front of the other, step, step, step. Maybe he would make it. He had to make it.

Finally, miraculously, the lovely sight of the great silver statue appeared in his sights, like a holy monument in his delirium. He could've cried, except he was pretty sure he already was.

Down the pier he went, until he made it to the tourist office. The sight of it was comforting, but terrifying at the same time. They were going to find out. They were going to know what kind of monster he was; _Jack_ would know, and it would tear him apart, the way the man would look at him.

But he deserved it, because he had taken their lives. Taken their innocence. He deserved to die, and if he couldn't do that, then he deserved to suffer.

The door opened to him, rolling to the side as it had on so many other occasions. He looked around, looked at the work stations, but he was alarmed to find that there was no one there. Raising his gaze to Jack's office, he found more of the same. Jack wasn't there.

He cried, then, a desperate cry. He couldn't fight this much longer; he had to be locked away, had to be made safe. He couldn't remain free any longer, or he would kill someone else. He didn't want to, he knew that, but he hadn't wanted to then either, and he had just the same. He'd killed them and he'd laughed, even though he screamed inside, and he knew that it wasn't in his control. He had to be locked away where he couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

But he couldn't lock himself away. That wasn't how the Vaults worked. He couldn't lock himself away; he had to wait. If they were away, they would be back soon, surely. It was light outside still; they hadn't gone home. Surely they would be back. If he stayed there, in the Hub, then it would be all right, wouldn't it? There wasn't anyone to tempt him in the Hub.

Clenching his fists, even as it ground glass shards against the bones of his knuckles and made joints crack painfully, he forced himself to walk over to the desk by the coffee machine. He would stay there and wait. He would wait for them, wait for Jack to save him. Because Jack always saved him, and he would do what he had to do to protect everyone. Jack would save him…from himself.

_She fought so hard against him, even lying there disoriented on that filthy mattress on the alley floor. Her fight was admirable, but he wanted her to fight harder. He wanted to beg her to fight him off, to hurt him, to beat him, to do anything it took to get away. She had to fight him, because no one was going to save her. She had to save herself from him, but she wasn't. She couldn't. _

_ He pushed her back down, kneeling on the mattress beside her and pressing his hand to her throat. The rain slicked his hand, and it was hard to get purchase, but he managed. Panic lit her eyes, her bright, bright eyes, and she tried to scream, but it was too late. His grip was too tight, and she couldn't get away, even as she thrashed. She wasn't thrashing hard enough, and he wasn't letting go. She was going to die. _

_ He was going to kill her. _

He couldn't take it anymore. Jack and the others were taking too long. His hands were shaking, his stomach churning, and he couldn't bear these memories anymore. The horrors of what he'd done; Christ, how could he have done those things?

There was no going back now. He knew it would hurt Jack to have to lock him away; he knew he would do it, though. He could save them both the trouble – save himself the suffering and save Jack the heartache – if he just ended it now. The bottle in his hand was burning him now, begging him. He could do it. It would be painless: much more painless than he deserved.

The bottle appeared in front of him, in bloody, shaking hands that fought to get the lid off. They managed, and he watched with some detachment as white pills appeared in his palm. Codeine, from an old injury. Owen did so love his pain medicines; Ianto never did take them. Ironically, he hated the loss of control they always seemed to incur.

Now, though, they represented the only form of control Ianto had. He couldn't control his impulses, couldn't stop himself from hurting people, but he could control his ability to do any of it. If he wasn't alive, he couldn't kill them. If he wasn't alive, then he wasn't a monster.

It was hard, swallowing all those pills. It didn't work like in the movies, where they all went down smoothly. They caught in his dry throat, and though he forced them down eventually, it was slow going, and it felt like they were still there, waiting. He hoped they would still work. Either that, or maybe they would come back up, get stuck there in his throat. If they suffocated him, wouldn't that be fitting? He'd choked those women, wouldn't it be perfect if he, too, choked by his own hand? Or, at least, as close to it as he could manage.

He'd killed so many monsters in his life. What was one more?


	4. Chapter 4

When they made it back to the Hub, Owen, Tosh, and Gwen all made for the conference room. It had been a hell of a day, and they were all famished; it was time for dinner, and since they didn't have their beloved Tea Boy to figure out their dinner, they were about to begin an epic fight to the death to decide something of the utmost importance:

Chinese, or pizza?

"We had pizza yesterday!" Gwen protested as they jogged up the stairs.

Owen snorted. "Yeah, well last time we had Chinese, I had a bloody migraine for a week. When they figure out that MSG is _not_ a food group that needs representing, then have at it!"

The argument faded as the three disappeared, and after a moment, Jack stepped through the open port door into the Hub. He, too, started for the stairs, only to freeze when something caught his ear. It was faint, barely audible, but then it repeated.

"Jack?"

He knew that voice; there was no mistaking it, and Jack turned around to see Ianto sitting in the desk by the coffee machine, just to the right of the door he'd come through.

Though he was tempted to lecture him, he couldn't help the smile on his face as he turned around and started down the stairs. "Hey, Yan, I thought you were taking the rest of the day off," he said. He had half a mind to lecture him, but as he neared the desk, the thought died where it stood.

Ianto was sitting in the chair behind the desk, his head lolled back against the back of it and his eyes barely open. Tears streamed down his face, glistening in the industrial lighting of the Hub, and the rise and fall of his chest was alarmingly fast.

"Jack," he whimpered again, his lips parting only just enough to let the words slip from them.

There was something oddly familiar about this, but Jack shoved the feeling back as he stepped slowly closer. "Yan, what's going on?" he asked. Whatever had been wrong with him before, it looked to be exponentially worse.

"You have to put me in the Vaults, Jack. You have to lock me up." There was a haunted look in his eyes, and as Jack took another step closer, he sprang from his seat, knocking the chair to the floor as he pressed himself back against the rail behind him.

"What are you talking about?" Jack asked, his eyebrows pulling together of their own accord.

"You have to lock me up!" Ianto repeated, more urgently this time. His face was twisted in a mask of terror and agony, and…was that shame? Disgust? "I killed three girls, Jack. I murdered them with my bare hands!"

Jack snorted. "Stop kidding around, Yan," he said. Ianto didn't kill three girls; Ianto was the most passive person he knew, and besides that, he was the most pure-hearted.

Just then, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs of the Hub. It seemed Ianto's start had made enough noise to draw the others from the conference room, and Owen, Gwen, and Tosh were all coming down the stairs, with Owen in the lead.

Only, it wasn't Owen whom Ianto's eyes fixed upon; instead, they flashed between Gwen and Tosh for a moment, before he screamed.

"Get away, please!" he cried. "Before I turn on you." His gaze fell once again to Jack, desperate and oddly unfocused. "Please, you have to lock me in the Vaults. I don't want to hurt anyone anymore, but I'm not safe!"

Jack didn't know what was going on, but he knew that having Tosh and Gwen around was only agitating his confused lover more. It made sense, he guessed: if Ianto thought he'd killed three girls, it was only logical he wouldn't want to be around his female teammates. "Gwen, Tosh, get back upstairs." Owen would stay, though, because he wanted to have the extra hands ready should he need them.

"But—"

He cut Gwen off before she could protest. "Now!" he shouted, and they went, albeit hesitantly.

Once they were gone, he held out his hands to Ianto, who had fallen back against the rails weakly, hugging himself and rocking back and forth on his feet. "I murdered them, Jack. In cold blood, I murdered them. I don't know why; I couldn't stop it. Please, Jack, you have to put me in the Vaults."

Jack took another step towards him, and tried not to be hurt as Ianto let out a fearful whimper. "I don't know what's happened to you, Ianto, but we're going to get you sorted out," he said in what he hoped was a confident manner.

"Don't you get it?" Ianto screamed at him. "I killed them! I could kill you too! Please, you have to lock me away!" But it didn't matter, because he was already on his feet, walking past Jack, clearly on the way to the Vaults.

Jack grabbed him, though, before he could get past him, turning Ianto around to face him. "Hey, hey," he said, gripping Ianto's shoulders firmly and forcing him to look him in the eyes. "Come here. What's happened to you?" Ianto tried to pull away, but Jack pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him and holding him. "Shh, come here."

And then, Ianto whispered three words that sent a chill down Jack's spine.

"I'm a monster."

Before he got the chance to respond to it, though, Owen spoke up. "Jack, look at his arms," he said. Jack let go of Ianto so that he could grab one of the smaller man's wrists, pushing up the sleeve of his jumper.

He was a bloody mess. The sleeve was soaked through with it, and from what he could tell, glass shards were embedded deep and sporadically all the way up to his elbows.

"Oh God, Yan, what did you do to yourself?" he whispered, because he knew those wounds. They were self-inflicted. They were panic wounds, with shards of broken mirror digging into shaking limbs.

Ianto let out a choked laugh, and to Jack's ears, it sounded truly mad. Mad, pained, and so very, very broken. "It doesn't matter anymore," he whispered.

The way he said it, Jack's already thudding heart leapt into his throat. He grabbed Ianto's shoulders again, gripping them tightly. "Why doesn't it matter?" he demanded. "Ianto, what did you do?"

But Owen was already on it. He had made his way to the desk sometime, and had produced from behind it an orange bottle covered in blood. Even through the bloodstains, Owen was able to make out what it was. "Codeine," he muttered, and then looked at Jack, his eyes wide. "He's taken all of it."

"I had to make it stop," Ianto whispered, his eyes boring desperately, pitifully into Jack's. "I was afraid you wouldn't get back in time, and I couldn't do it again. I can't hurt anyone else, Jack, I can't."

"When, Ianto?" Owen asked, but Ianto wasn't listening to him.

So Jack tried. "Ianto, you have to tell me when you took it. I need you to tell me when."

Ianto was crying so hard by now that it was hard for him to speak, but he did manage. "Just before you came in. I thought you weren't coming. I thought I could—I thought that if I—"

"The capsules take a good half hour to break down. We've got to make him throw 'em up, Jack," Owen said. His voice held a calm that Jack knew he personally didn't have. Ianto had just tried to kill himself; he was panicking. But he knew Owen was right, and he knew he had to be quick. They couldn't help Ianto if he was dead.

Between the two of them, Jack and Owen managed to wrestle Ianto into the morgue. He was screaming and thrashing all the way.

"You have to let me die!" he was screaming. "I killed them!"

They forced Ianto to his knees in front of the empty rubbish bin, Jack holding onto Ianto with his arms around the smaller man's chest and arms while Owen grabbed hold of his head. "C'mon, Iants, out with it," Owen said, and Jack couldn't tell if it was an order or a prayer. Either way, Ianto wasn't listening. He was sobbing now, thrashing with his teeth clenched.

"Come on, Yan, I need you to be sick, okay? I know you don't want to, but I need you to be sick," Jack pleaded as Owen fought to get Ianto's jaws apart. He'd break them if he bloody-well had to – a broken jaw was easier to fix than a dead Ianto – but he didn't want it to come to that. "Please, Yan. I'll take you to the Vaults; I'll do whatever you want, but you have to open your mouth for me."

And even though that didn't seem to do it entirely, Ianto's jaw loosened just enough for Owen to get his fingers in between Ianto's teeth and pry his mouth open. Ianto's eyes went wide with panic as he realized his mistake, and he bucked and thrashed, but Jack held him still.

"Sorry for this, mate," Owen said, and then forced his fingers into the back of Ianto's throat. With a violent heave, the capsules came rushing up and out his mouth and into the waiting bin as Owen started checking his pulse. One hand still kept Ianto's mouth open, pressing into the juncture of his jaw. "His pulse is quick, but strong, and it doesn't look like any of it's started to break down." Right about then, Ianto stopped retching, and Jack was about to relax, but Owen shook his head. "Just to be sure," he said. He pressed his fingers once again to the back of Ianto's tongue, and once again, Ianto started to throw up. This time, only yellow acid came up, free of any of the white pills that spotted the last one, and when he stopped this time around, Owen let his jaw slip closed.

As Owen pulled a penlight from his pocket and started flashing it in Ianto's eyes, the younger man started rocking back and forth. He was too distraught for words, now, shaking and sobbing in Jack's arms.

"It's all right, mate," Owen told him, and there was a tenderness in his voice that Jack rarely heard. He turned his attention to Jack. "So far's I can tell, he's got no symptoms of an overdose. I think we caught it in time. I'll need to check his arms out, too."

Jack nodded, and started to life Ianto up to get him to the morgue table, but Ianto let out a sudden scream and tore away from him. "You said you'd lock me up!" he shouted. "You have to! Please!"

Jack grabbed him, though, before he got a chance to get too far. He pulled him, thrashing, to his chest and wrapped his arms around him. "Shh," he soothed. "I'm gonna need you to trust me, okay? You know I'll take care of you, so I need you to let me. Me and Owen are going to get you patched up, and then we'll go from there."

"Jack," Ianto moaned pitifully, and Jack could feel his hot, frantic breaths through the fabric of his shirt. He was so scared, and it was tearing at Jack's heart. "I killed them, Jack," he sobbed. "I saw it; I killed them, and I forgot about it like we all forgot about it, but I remembered. I remembered."

That's when Jack finally made the connection: whatever was going on with Ianto, it had something to do with the two days they'd lost. Something had happened to Ianto, maybe to all of them, something that he'd told himself not to try to remember.

Whatever it was, though, he knew without a doubt that it wasn't this. Ianto hadn't done what he thought he'd done; now he just had to find out why he thought it.

"We'll get you sorted, mate," Owen assured him, and then nodded to Jack. Ianto really was bleeding a lot, and Owen needed to have a look at him.

Between them, it wasn't hard for Jack and Owen to get Ianto up onto the table, sitting on the side of it with his legs hanging off the edge at the knee. He'd gone limp, for the most part, muttering to himself under his breath and shaking like a leaf all the while. Jack had taken up post behind him, holding Ianto around the waist as Owen gathered his tools.

"It's gonna be okay," Jack whispered to him, pressing feather-soft kisses into Ianto's hair, and he repeated it as Owen wheeled two tables over. The first was tall, with a pillow and blue cloth on top, and the second was covered with tools and a bottle of rubbing alcohol and two bins.

Owen started with the scissors, picking them up with his now-gloved hands. "You've got a particular fondness for this jumper?" Owen asked, though he wasn't really expecting a response. Not surprisingly, he didn't get one, and he started cutting away the blood-soaked sleeves. With a few skillful sweeps of the scissors, the jumper went, then the t-shirt. It wasn't until he pulled off Ianto's shoes and reached for the fastenings of his jeans that Ianto started to show signs of life.

He pulled back, pressing himself closer to Jack's waiting body. "Don't," he said, his voice cracking weakly.

Owen frowned sympathetically. Ianto always did have a problem with being undressed, and now that he was already upset – that seemed to be putting it lightly – it didn't take much to set him off.

"Sorry, Iants, but I've got to be sure there's nothing else I ought to be worried about."

"There's not," Ianto choked out. His heart was thudding faster, his eyes impossibly wide. He was panicking, and as Jack grabbed Ianto around the middle so that he held his upper arms as well, he started struggling again. "I can't be here! I deserve it!" he screamed. "It hurts so much, and I killed them, so I deserve it!" When his pleas fell on deaf ears, and when his thrashing failed to shake Jack's grip, he screamed louder, a desperate, _animalistic_ sound that made Jack's hair stand up on the back of his neck.

"Can't you sedate him?" Jack demanded, doing his best to hold Ianto still as he twisted. For someone who'd nearly overdose, bled out, and struggled for hours, he was still putting up a hell of a fight.

Owen frowned. He'd thought that, too. He wanted to, to sedate his friend to stop his suffering until they could get to the root of all this, but he couldn't. "I can't risk it interfering with the codeine if there's any left in his system," he said. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do to calm him down."

The gravity of that took a second to sink in. He couldn't be sedated; it meant he wouldn't sleep, it meant he wouldn't relax, it meant he'd have to be awake to feel every damn thing Owen was about to have to do to him. While part of him just wanted to tell the doctor to tend to his arms and just leave the rest of him alone, he was scared, too. They had to be sure that Ianto hadn't done anything more to himself, and hopefully run some tests to figure out what the hell had happened to the poor, terrified young man.

"Jack?" The way Ianto said his name, it was with the same pleading desperation from before. He was begging Jack to help him, to make it better. It was what Jack wanted to do, what Jack was _going_ to do; the problem was that what Ianto wanted and what was best for him were two different things. Things were about to get worse for Ianto Jones, while he and Owen tried to make it better.

"I'm sorry, Yan," he said, because that was all he _could_ say. "I'm so sorry." He kissed Ianto's tear-stained cheek and adjusted his hold on his trembling form. "But we're going to figure out what happened to you; we're going to make it better. I promise."

And that was a promise he was going to keep.


	5. Chapter 5

Hours later found Ianto locked in the Vaults, just like he'd asked. They made sure to put him in the upper levels, where there was nothing else residing, and they'd lined the floor with blankets and pillows, as they'd done the bunk.

He was sitting in the corner, his knees pulled to his chest as he rocked himself back and forth. At his sides, his arms lay limp, bandaged from his fingertips to his elbows. His right was stuck in a hard plaster, because he'd fractured his ulna, probably slamming it up against something while he thrashed.

In fact, a lot of him was covered in similar wounds, from bruises on his chest to strained ligaments in his knee. Nothing too serious, but painful all the same. Owen had put a brace on his knee just to be safe, and taped and bandaged his ribs to keep them stable.

They'd replaced his clothes with a clean white t-shirt and some track trousers, and now there he sat, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself. He didn't even seem to know that Jack was there, leaning against the stone wall opposite his cell. He'd been in there for hours, since Owen had finished patching him up, and all the time, Jack had been watching him.

It was odd, the way he was acting. At times, he would be like this now, clearly scared and shaking; sometimes he'd even get up, and stumble around the cell – the brace Owen had put on his knee made walking awkward.

But then there were times where he would freeze. His eyes would open and stare straight ahead, but at nothing at all, and his face would twist in horror. Those were the times he would talk.

In those times, he wanted nothing more than to open the cell and hold his lover, but it only seemed to upset Ianto more when there was someone in there with him. Jack could tell he wanted the comfort, the way his eyes pleaded for it, but there was something else there, too. He was afraid to let people close to him, not because he was afraid of being hurt, but because he was afraid of doing the hurting.

"Please run." The noise shook Jack from his daze, and his eyes fell back into focus on the huddled form in the cell. For a moment, he thought he was talking to him, and he was about to assure him that he wasn't going anywhere, but then he realized that Ianto was doing it again. He was staring off into space, like his target was thousands of miles away.

He straightened up, walking up to the glass door and pressing his hand against it. Ianto hadn't spoken so clearly before when this was happening. He'd muttered to himself, but he hadn't spoken.

"I didn't do that," Ianto whispered, horrified. He rose to his feet, then, his eyes darting from side to side. "My…diary!" he cried. His eyes dropped to the ground, like he was watching something be discarded. "No, please! I didn't…it wasn't…Jack has to know!"

His ears piqued at the mention of his name, and he stepped closer to the wall. Ianto was seeing something that wasn't there; he was seeing one of the memories that had him so petrified of himself.

Suddenly, Ianto looked confused. He looked one way, then the other, his eyes nearly falling directly on Jack, before turning away again. His eyes fell to the ground, to the wall where he'd been sitting only moments before, and suddenly his legs seemed to give out from beneath him. He fell back against the opposite wall, and he screamed, his eyes wide with horror. Jack couldn't see what he was seeing, but he had a pretty good idea of what it was. He was crying, his voice loud and agonized, as he hugged his knees to his chest.

Jack couldn't take it anymore. The agony in his voice made Jack's heart ache, and before he could even come to a decision, he was opening the door and stepping quickly inside. He dropped to a knee in front of Ianto and put his hands on his shoulder, forcing him to look up. It was time to get answers.

"What do you see, Yan?"

Ianto wasn't looking at him, but still at the wall, his eyes wet with tears and filled with fear. "I killed her," he whimpered, and then he turned, his head cocking to the side like he'd heard something.

"What is it?" Jack pressed, moving his hands to cup Ianto's face between them.

"Can't you hear it?" he whispered. "I can. All the time. It wants me to remember."

There had to be a reason for it. Ianto was hearing voices, but there had to be a reason for it. He refused to believe that his Ianto was going insane; there was always a reason for it. "What is it saying?"

Finally, Ianto's eyes came to rest, hauntingly, on Jack, as his lips formed around two words. "Remember it," he breathed.

And it was those words that finally made everything click in Jack's head. The note he'd left himself, the items they'd found – everything came back to him in a rush. He could see himself in these very same cells, talking to someone, only there was no one there. He could hear the vaguest whisper, but there was no timbre to the voice, no face to the words. It was like there was a part of the memory that just wasn't there, but all the same, there was enough.

_Remember it,_ he heard. _Remember it._

He stood up with a start. The wiped records – they were never cleared entirely. He still had them; he hadn't looked at them before, because he'd told himself not to. If anyone had a good reason for doing anything, it was himself. But now, there were more important things than listening to himself. Ianto was more important than anything he'd ever had to say; he had to fix it.

"I can fix this, Yan," he breathed, the realization suddenly sparking in his head like fireworks. He didn't know how he knew, but the answer to whatever was wrong with Ianto, it was on those tapes. He would find out, and he would make things right. "I know how to fix this."

And with that, he turned on his heel and ran. He barely even heard the door of the vault close behind him as he tore up the stairs, up, up, and into his office where he nearly collapsed in his seat. His hands threw things from his desk, scrabbling for the keyboard to control his CCTVs.

It took some searching, routing through old files and locked bins, until finally he found them. The ghosts of the two days they'd forgotten, encoded and encrypted, secrets written in ones and zeros.

With one last glance at the note he'd left himself – extenuating circumstances, these were – he flicked them on. His fingers danced over the keys of the keyboard, pulling up one window at a time, searching through this file and that, until he found the one he was looking for.

There was Ianto, holding his diary in his hands, a confused look on his face. He fast-forwarded, until something caught his eye. Ianto was on his feet, looking nervously at something. At first, Jack could see nothing, but then a specter materialized. It had no form, no definable shape, but it was there all the same, like the voice had been in Jack's head.

"What's wrong?" he heard, and it _was_ the voice from before. It wasn't identifiable; it had no recognizable tone or timbre, it just _was_. Ianto jumped away from the specter. "My diary," he breathed, and Jack watched as the book rose, seemingly on its own, on the opposite end of the couch where Ianto's eyes were fixed. "You're not in it." The diary opened, and pages turned. "Everyone else is. Why would I leave you out when you've been here so long?" The diary closed. "Like I'm remembering a man who doesn't exist."

Something in the specter weakened; it loses some of its form, and Ianto watches. "What are you?"

Suddenly, Ianto is slammed against the wall by the specter, and Jack can't help wondering if _that's _truly where the bruises came from, the cracked ribs. He can tell it isn't something Ianto is doing to himself; the way his feet are lifted from the ground, the way he is propelled backwards…there is someone – some_thing_ – else.

"Cross me, and I will fill you full of fake memories until your head is on fire, because that's how I exist."

And then it all makes sense. The box, the trinket he found marked "Adam's Property." It made sense why the team was missing two days of their lives, and why Ianto was afraid of something he hadn't done. Something had played with their memories, rooting itself in their thoughts, and to fix it, Jack had wiped everything clear. It was why he couldn't define the voice, couldn't see the specter, because it didn't really exist. It wasn't there anymore, because they had forgotten it, and now Ianto was left with nothing by the memories it had fed to him.

He jumped from his seat, running full speed back to the Vaults. Ianto had to see this. He had to understand what was happening, to see that these memories weren't real. He had to know that he hadn't hurt anyone, because it was tearing him apart.

He skidded to a stop in the Vaults, punching the codes on the lock of the door. He didn't even give it time to slide open all the way before he ran inside, grabbing up Ianto by his shoulders and pulling him out.

Once he caught on to what Jack was doing, Ianto started to struggle, fighting to get himself back in the Vault.

"You need to see this," Jack told him firmly as he wrestled him back out of the Vaults.

"Let me go!" Ianto cried, twisting and thrashing. Jack had him around the waist, half dragging, half carrying the squirming young man up the stairs to his office. Even hysteria couldn't give enough strength to overpower Jack's adrenaline-powered hold.

Jack wrangled him up into his office, forcing him in front of the screen he'd been watching only moments before. He started the recording, holding Ianto by his shoulders.

"No!" Ianto shouted, trying to wrench himself away. What if Jack had seen? What if his deeds had been recorded, and if Jack had found them and, God, he couldn't bear to see it. He tried desperately to get away, but Jack held firm.

"Come here," he said. "Come here, just look." He pointed to the monitor, as Ianto was forced to the ground by this formless specter on the screen. "Look."

_"Remember it,"_ said the Voice, but this time, it wasn't just in Ianto's head. This time, it was coming through the speakers on the screen, and this time, Jack heard it too. _"Remember it. Remember it. Remember it."_ The Ianto on the screen screamed as he was forced to the ground by the weight of it all, as he was assaulted by the memories the specter was forcing in to his head.

Ianto sobbed. The voice…it was there, over and over again. It was repeating, and he couldn't escape it. Jack wouldn't let him.

Holding him tight, Jack pressed a kiss to the side of his head. "You didn't do anything, see, Yan?" he said, putting his hand over Ianto's chest. He could feel the younger man's heart thudding quickly against his palm, but he'd stopped struggling. "Something changed you, played with your memories. You're not a murderer."

"But it was so real," Ianto protested, tears streaming down his face in thick rivulets. "I saw it happen."

"You _thought_ you saw it. You _thought_ you remembered it, but it was just this thing."

"But why can't I remember that, then?" Ianto demanded. "I don't remember any of this."

"That's not true," Jack said. "You do. You said those words, back in the Vault. You said it: 'Remember it'."

Ianto's face contorted into a mask of despair. He wanted to badly to believe what Jack was telling him; he wanted to believe that he wasn't a murderer, just like Jack believed, but it couldn't just be coincidence. "Two days, Jack! I don't remember two days!"

"Because I made you forget them," Jack told him, turning Ianto away from the screen to look him in the eyes. "This thing, it lived out of our memories of it. Out of the memories it gave us. To kill it, we all had to forget."

"Then why am I remembering it?" Ianto whimpered, his fists clenching in Jack's shirt, his fingers twisting in Jack's braces.

"You're not remembering it," Jack said. "It's gone. That's why it has no voice, no shape. We did kill it, Ianto. What you're remembering…it's like a scar. It hurt you, Ianto, whatever that thing was. It left scars, and I didn't see it, and I'm so, so sorry." He pressed his hand to Ianto's cheek, brushing away the tears wetting it. "You didn't hurt anyone, Ianto; you're not a monster."

"But I saw it," Ianto protested weakly. "I saw my hands around their necks, I felt it. I saw the life drain out of their eyes."

"Because he made you see it, Yan. You're not a murderer. Please, just trust me." He pulled Ianto into a hug, wrapping his arms around him and stroking his fingers through his hair as Ianto fell into harsh, wracking sobs. "Trust me when I say you're innocent. Just trust me, and let me help."

For a long, heart-stopping moment, Ianto didn't say anything, and when he did, it was enough to bring tears to Jack's own eyes. "It hurts," he choked out. "I thought I deserved it."

Jack rocked him on his feet, his hand cradling Ianto's head as the younger man cried into his shoulder. "Shh," he soothed. "You don't deserve any of this. Maybe we can go see Owen, see if he can help any, okay?"

Ianto stiffened. Even in his daze, he hadn't forgotten the hours he spent on that autopsy table, Jack holding him tight as Owen picked the glass shards out of his arm. Twenty-three stitches it had taken to piece him back together, and then Owen had had to right his arm to put it in the plaster. Add that to being stripped naked with nothing but a cloth in his lap while they picked over the rest of him with the proverbial fine-tooth comb, and it was understandable why he wasn't too keen on the idea of going back there.

_If only we'd gotten back just a few minutes sooner. He wouldn't have taken those damn pills._ If he hadn't taken the codeine, they could have just sedated him. He wouldn't have had to suffer through that, but then, if he had been sedated, he might never have said the words that helped Jack make the connection.

After a little while with no response from Ianto, the younger man pulled back. Just enough to see Jack's face, he noticed, but not enough to be free of Jack's arms. He wanted the contact, _needed _it, and now he wasn't too afraid to allow it. "Where are the others?" he whispered. He didn't want to be around them just yet; God only knew what they'd seen, what they thought of him now. He didn't think he could bear it just yet.

Jack smiled soothingly. This was progress, wasn't it? Talking about something else, letting Jack hold him. He was still shaken and upset, sure, but he was starting to relax, and Jack allowed himself to think, just maybe, he'd gotten through to him. "I told Tosh and Gwen to go home; it's about five in the morning. Owen's hanging around here somewhere. Do you want to go see him about maybe getting something to help you sleep?" It had been about six hours, now, and he wasn't showing any signs of an overdose. If nothing else, maybe he could give him a local or something to help with his arms. From the way he was cradling the one in the plaster, Jack got the feeling it was hurting him pretty bad.

But Ianto shook his head. "Don't want to go anywhere," he mumbled, leaning his head against Jack's chest. It seemed that the adrenaline was wearing down: all that hysteria had really taken it out of him. He could only go so long; days without sleep, without rest, it had left him worn down, and now, as he finally started to relax in Jack's arms, as his fears had finally been lifted, he was fading fast.

"Let's at least get you somewhere you can sleep, huh?"

At that suggestion, Ianto nodded, a grateful expression stretching across his face. It was almost a smile, and the sight of it released the vise that seemed to have wrapped itself around his chest. The relief was unimaginable.

With Ianto's semi-broken arm, there was no getting him down to Jack's bed, and he definitely wasn't putting him back in the Vaults. That left the sofa, but Jack wondered if Ianto wouldn't be a little nervous about that couch, given that was where the specter had cornered him. It didn't leave him many options.

There was always the air mattress; it would fit well enough in the space behind his desk, and that way he could keep Ianto close and maybe even sort through the small mountain of paperwork that had piled up while he'd been otherwise occupied. He'd go ahead and put in for a week off work for Ianto, too, just so they could have it on file.

"You mind hanging out here for just a few minutes?" he asked, and when Ianto shook his head, he helped him into his office chair. Before he left, he couldn't help it – his eyes did a quick scan of his desk to make sure there was nothing sharp or potentially harmful.

And then he began his scavenger hunt.


End file.
